


I’ve been dreaming of a white Christmas (but then again, I would have liked to be at home when it happened).

by Notevenaproperword



Category: Father Brown (2013)
Genre: Female Friendship, Sharing a Bed, secret scones 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 12:31:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13100169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notevenaproperword/pseuds/Notevenaproperword
Summary: Lady Felicia drives home from a WI function with Mrs McCarthy. There's a blizzard, trouble ensues.





	I’ve been dreaming of a white Christmas (but then again, I would have liked to be at home when it happened).

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notmoreflippingelves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmoreflippingelves/gifts).



> For the 2017 Secret Scones exchange on tumblr  
> Answering the prompt: there’s only one bed trope (can be shippy or not)  
> With: Felicia & Mrs. M (platonic)

**I’ve been dreaming of a white Christmas (but then again, I would have liked to be at home when it happened).**

 

Felicia puts the car in reverse but the only thing she sees moving is the snow gently falling before her headlights.  _ Stupid deer! _ She thinks angrily. She steered the wheel a little too much to avoid the animal and now, here they are, stuck in the middle of a snow covered forest. Nightfall is quite behind them too. Her companion is not too happy about that either.  
  


“I knew I should have went on the bus with the others!”  
  


The countess of Montague rolls her eyes, her hand are still gripping the steering wheel.  
  


“Don’t be daft, Mrs M.” Bridget gives her a nasty look. “You’d be stuck just the same, but with Mrs Fortescue and her lot, that’s all.”  
  


In other circumstances, the parish secretary would agree with Lady Felicia. Instead, she waves an accusatory finger toward the other woman.  
  


“And how do you know  _ this _ is not just because of your reckless driving?!”  
  


_It_  is clearly not. Although, if Felicia had not been so keen on showing off the many accessories her new car possessed, she might have seen the deer sooner and they might not have ended up in that situation.  _ At least, neither of us need medical assistance this time. _ This thought alone brings back remorse and regret by the galleon. Mrs McCarthy is praying now and it quickly gets on Felicia’s nerves. She leaves the somewhat warmish interior of the car for the below zero temperature of the forest. She slams the door forcefully, almost like a petulant child making a show of her exit.

Mrs M ignores her, half sulking, half praying, and the cold that briefly blows against her face.

Felicia’s shoes are not made for rambling in the snow but her leather gloves seem to be protecting her hands just fine. She raises the fur collar of her coat against her throat and goes on. They either will die frozen in the car or outside, Felicia chooses to die trying. 

In the car, Mrs McCarthy is still determined that Felicia is coming back, as soon as she will be too cold to go on with this foolishness. But Mrs M is at her fourth hail mary and the countess only seems to be getting further and further away from the car. Bridget suddenly realises the woman is abandoning her and it is her outrage, equalling her fear now, that pushes her to leave the car too and run after the Lady Felicia. The cold has the effect of rather vigorous slap across her face. Catching up with the countess is harder than expected but, at least, it keep her warm. That and her boiling blood.

 

“Where exactly do you think you’re going?!” Bridget exclaims, more terrified than angry.

“I don’t plan on freezing in the car.” Felicia states blandly. Bridget catches the cold in her voice and her fear too.

 

Felicia hesitates about leaving the car behind. But truth is, she resents the car; yet  _ another  _ gift from Monty.  


 

“There’s got to be  _ someone  _ living around here.” She says, more to herself than to Bridget.

“A maniac certainly.” The other retorts back.

 

Lady Felicia stops suddenly and throws her hands up. 

 

“What should we do then?!”

 

Mrs M halters her steps too but does not answer. She is cold and tired and the silence of the night and the snow conjures up the worst ideas. They might die from hypothermia or get attacked by some animals just because Felicia avoided hurting another. It could be much worse, she’s seen what hitting an animal can actually do to a car before; They could be dying right now instead.

 

“Fine, let’s find help.”

“Or die trying.”

 

Bridget almost tells her to shut up but she needs all her strength to go through that ordeal. Their progress is a difficult one for they can’t see past two meters, they are both wearing the wrong shoes and the snow slows their paces. Bridget stumbles twice and each time, Felicia is there to steady her. Felicia slips, almost twisting her ankle but Bridget catches her in time. They don’t say much and neither can feel their fingers anymore.

Sometimes, they see what they believe could be a clearing and light but it is only their minds playing tricks and frozen water reflecting on frozen water. They hear noises too and they shudder, daring not to imagine what could be hiding in the dark.

And they keep on walking with a strange kind of determination; survival instinct.

 

They have been walking for what feels like hours when they come upon a small cabin. Felicia sees the light first but Bridget smells the fire before her. They share a look; a mixture of hope and despair.

 

Felicia knocks on the door first, lightly. Then Mrs M takes matter in her own hands and starts banging on the door. It opens, suddenly, violently and both women jump. The owner of the cabin brandish a shotgun. He seems angry but surprised.

 

“Please don’t shoot!” Felicia pleads. “Our car broke down not far away and we have nowhere to go.”

 

The man lowers his gun, his eyebrows are knotted. He is tall, terrifyingly so, and massive too. Bridget McCarthy is not one to pretend she is not afraid but neither is she one to show it.

 

“Could we use the telephone and ring for someone to come for us, please?”

“My husband will send a car, surely.”

“They must be looking for us. We’d be out of your hair in no time.”

 

They both force a wide smile on their faces. They had the same idea. Pretending someone is waiting and looking for them seems reassuring at the moment.

 

A grunt.

 

“You can’t.”

 

Mrs McCarthy and Lady Felicia share a horrified look. They are certain they are going to die.

 

Another grunt.

 

“The line’s down. The snow.”

 

He seems very annoyed for a second, angry even and scratch his unkempt beard. 

 

“Come in.” He says begrudgingly. “I suppose I can’t let you freeze to death.”

 

Lady F shots an uncertain glance at Mrs M. But the woman is more baffled by the look of annoyance on the man’s face than anything else.

She does, however, make one comment under her breath “Well, that’s relief.”

 

Felicia smiles to cover her fear, widely so and she is pretty sure she has the looks of a maniac. The inside of the cabin is austere but there is a fire burning somewhere and the countess shivers. The man points to the right of a cross between a fancy ladder and a plain staircase. He disappears in the opposite direction. 

 

Mrs M scans the room. The fireplace and the low bench before it are tempting. There is not a personal items, except for a chipped piece of china sitting on an old wooden table surrounded by equally old chairs. Felicia goes for the phone and puts the receiver to her ear.

 

“Well, he isn’t lying about the line.” She whispers to Bridget. “It’s dead.” 

 

Mrs McCarthy sighs loudly and sits down by the fire. 

 

“Perhaps we should take our coats off.”

“I know what I should do perfectly well, thank you.”

 

Mrs M’s tone is cutting but Lady F does not take it against her. Instead she sheds her coats and gloves off. She puts the coat on the back of a chair, and the gloves on top of it, before coming to sit by Mrs M. They rub their hands and watch the fire dancing in silence until Felicia leans towards Mrs M and asks:

 

“Where do you think he’s gone?”

“I’d rather not know.”

 

Mrs M sighs then scrunches her nose. 

 

“Your hat is dripping on me.”

“Yours too.”

“Fine.”

 

Two removed hats later, the man is not back.

 

“He didn’t even introduce himself.” Bridget notes, finally standing up to remove her coat.

“We didn’t either.”

“Will you stop contradicting me?”

“Fine!”

 

Mrs McCarthy doesn’t even look at Lady Felicia when she sits back down. Instead, she bends down and proceeds to take her shoes off.

 

“What on earth are you doing?”

“I don’t plan on losing a toe, thank you.”

“And she’s right.”

 

The voice makes them jump. The man is back, his head not far from the ceiling. He carries two steaming bowls of what smells like pumpkin soup.

 

“I figured you’d be hungry.”

“Thank you, Mr… ?” Felicia offers with one of her dazzling smiles.

 

The bowl feels heavenly against her fingers.

 

“Call me Nick.”

 

Felicia’s lips tug up at one corner. Mrs M can’t help but finding it amusing.

 

“Mrs Mccarthy.” She says, taking one of the bowls in her hands.

“Lady Felicia Montague.”

 

He does not seem to care about their names.

 

“Maybe the line will work in the morning.” He sits at the table watching the two women sipping their soups. “Or the people looking for you will come.”

 

Felicia nods. 

 

“Here take that.” Nick stands up suddenly, Mrs M winces. He rummages through the content of an old box next to the fireplace and produces a candle and its holder. He lights it and forces it into Mrs M’s hand.

 

“I have things to do. You leave that when you’re done.” He points at Felicia’s bowl. “Then, upstairs. First door on the left.” Then he makes for the door, two pairs of eyes follow him. “The door on the left.” He repeats. “You can sleep there.”

 

Bridget and Felicia nods in agreement and he goes without so much as a look back. His departure sparks a lively debate — or more accurately, an argument — until Felicia decides she’s tired and will sleep in the room. Mrs is just scared enough to not want to be left alone. But she makes Felicia promise not to check the other possibly existing room. It’s then and only then that she agrees to follow her occasional friend and partner in plausible death.

 

Another problem arises when they discover the tiny room : there is only one bed. A huge pile of blankets in an open trunk, but only one bed.

They share a defeated glance.

 

“I will sleep on the floor.” Mrs M finally claims. She has her disgruntled frown on, the one that says “ _ Obviously, I will have to. Since you are a countess. _ ” Lady F can not help but note that Mrs M wears it really often.

 

“Are you insane?” Felicia asks, her voice going up an octave — at least. “You’ll freeze to death and if, god willing, we survive, you will complain for days!”

 

She is probably right. The light flickers. There’s a strange noise downstairs and it is enough to make them retreat in the room. 

 

“Should we barricade the door?” Felicia asks softly. “You know, just in case.”

“We probably should.” Bridget agrees to Felicia’s surprise. 

 

And they do, with the empty trunk.

 

There is second of uncertainty where they look at the bed and purposely avoid looking at each other. Mrs M clears her throat awkwardly before setting the candle down on the trunk to check the cleanliness of the sheets.

 

“I don’t think we’ll get lice.”

“Good. Let’s try and get some sleep.”

 

They arrange themselves in a position that is neither comfortable nor uncomfortable, both facing in opposite directions. Bridget is hesitant a first but she finally blows on the flame, watching it disappear as her hope to come back to Kembleford alive diminishes a little more. At first, Lady Felicia thinks that maybe —  _ just maybe — _ she might fall asleep listening to Mrs M’s breathing somewhere behind her. But then, a loud thud reaches her ears, and another, and again. 

 

“Mrs McCarthy?”

“Hush, it’s probably nothing.”

 

A crash startles Mrs M. Felicia feels her turn in the bed. 

 

“He might be cutting wood.” She says, her voice is heavily tinted with doubt. 

 

Felicia moves to face her.

 

“Maybe he’s the real Saint Nick.” She whispers mischievously.

“Oh don’t be daft.”

 

But Bridget can not hide her amusement. Felicia sees it at the corner of her eyes. They are both brought back to reality by a crash.

 

“If we die here tonight-” Lady F begins.

“We won’t.” Mrs M cuts her.

“It was an honour to know you.” The other blurts out. 

 

Mrs M lets a time pass, suddenly overwhelmed by a strange burst of affection.

 

“Lady Felicia. It was an honour for me too.”

 

She reaches to squeeze her hand in the dark. The creaking of the stairs makes her tightens her grip. Bridget exhales carefully. 

 

“When I was little, my sisters and I would sleep together sometimes.”

 

Felicia listens diligently. Mrs M’s voice is soothing when she speaks so softly.

 

“Especially at Christmas, we didn’t get much but we loved waiting together. We’d giggle and tell each other stories. And even when we learnt that the tales weren’t true, we’d still huddle together the night before Christmas and listen to the pacing outside the room. We knew Saint Nick wasn’t real but it was Christmas and it was dark and there was a kind of magic. So our father’s walk didn’t sound exactly like his. Sometimes we’d wonder if we had been wrong all along and the noises we’d heard were not our father walking.”

“Did you ever go and check?” Felicia asks softly.

“Oh, no. Never, that would break the Christmas spirit.” Bridget smiles fondly at the memories. “I bet you did go and check.”

 

Felicia shrugs and Bridget can just picture the face she is making right now; Eyes glinting with mischief and lips curled in a cheshire cat like grin. 

 

“Elsie – my youngest sister – she tried looking once.”

“And what did she see?”

“Nothing. She tripped on one of Mabel’s shoes before reaching the door.”

 

Lady Felicia chuckles, and yawns. 

 

“Sorry.”

 

Mrs McCarthy says nothing for little while. She listens to the newfound silence of the room and of the cabin, and to Felicia’s decreasingly slow breathing.

 

“Listen...” she whispers. “The noises are gone.”

 

But Felicia does not answer. Her eyes are resolutely closed and her fingers limp against Bridget’s. The latter smiles to herself and soon she is sleeping too.  
  


 

 

Her awakening is not as sweet or soft. Felicia suddenly jumps out of bed, dragging most of the covers with her. She rushes to the window and Bridget groans and shivers.

 

“What in the name of the Lord are you doing?”

 

But the countess has opened the window and the cold gets in, fast and biting. Bridget shivers, her clothes are all crumpled.

 

“Get up! I think I heard something. SID! SID! LOOK UP!”

 

Mrs McCarthy rolls her eyes. She must be dreaming or Lady Felicia has a fever. She closes her eyes again, her eyelids are heavy with sleep; maybe she is the one with the fever. But then, she hears it, Sid’s annoying flirtatious tone, speaking words she would not dare thinking of.

 

“Morning, Lady F. Did you try to seduce Mrs M by trying that French trick of ‘oh no the car ran out of gas’?”

 

Mrs McCarthy dreads to hear the Felicia’s answer and, in no time, she is at the window, looking down at Sid. 

 

“Sidney!”

 

Lady Felicia dissolves into laughter and Sid grins at her indignation.

 

“Sidney!” The echo belongs to Father Brown. Inspector Sullivan follows suit, both making slow progress through the snow. “Ah, good, you found them.”

 

And he looks up at Mrs McCarthy’s disgruntled face and sees Felicia’s tears of laughter.

And he ponders, with an enigmatic beam, that some things never change.


End file.
